STORM IN 
HARVEST 

And Other Poems 
By 

Edward Steese 

BRICK ROW BOOK 
SHOP, INC. 











































































































Class_f J 537 

Book_,I - __ 

GofpghtN?._ L ' . / 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 















STORM IN HARVEST 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Copyright by 

The Brick Row Book Shop, Inc. 

1923 


STORM IN 
HARVEST 

?ylnd Other Poems 


By 

EDWARD STEESE 

'\ 



EDMOND BYRNE HACKETT 
THE BRICK ROW BOOK SHOP, INC. 

NEW YORK NEW HAVEN PRINCETON 


1 9 2 3 























3ST3 7 

/‘f z.3 




» 


- i 

■ a « 


OCT 25 *23 

©C1A759711 




I 


FOREWORD 

In bringing this book before the public, 
I wish first to offer my deepest thanks to 
Schuyler B. Jackson, and to Professors 
Morris W. Croll and Gordon Hall Gerould 
for their helpful criticism and aid in 
selecting these poems for publication, as 
well as for the encouragement and inspira¬ 
tion they have given me during my years 
at Princeton. I wish also to thank the 
editors of the London Mercury and the 
Nassau Literary Magazine, and the mem¬ 
bers of the Tuesday Evening Club for per¬ 
mission to reprint many of these poems. 

E. S. 


CONTENTS 


I 

Storm in Harvest, 7 

The Covered Well, 11 

Dead Leaves, 13 

Lines Written in Autumn, 15 

After Tennis, 25 

Mary, 27 

The Spinster of Skinch Lane, 28 

Evening, 30 

Relief, 31 

Tosca, Act III, 32 

Winter, 33 

March, 34 

Necessity, 35 

Fireside, 36 

After Golf, 37 

Symphony, 38 

Nordman Firs, 39 


II 

A June Walk in Princeton, 43 
Going to Eat, 50 
Spring Night, 51 

The Student Re-enters His Room, 52 

The Student Looks From His Window, 53 

Twenty-One, 54 

Perspective, 55 

Peace of Night, 57 

Moonrise, 58 

On Leaving a Room, 59 

The Sea Lies East of Princeton, 60 

Metronomes, 61 

After Closing, 62 


Ill 

To a Woman Who Has Gained Peace, 65 
Sea Brume, 66 
Ecstasy, 68 

The Poet Calls His Love to the Mountains, 69 

He Advises His Love, 70 

Broken Chords, 71 

He Closes His Heart, 72 

He Finds Relief in Life, 74 

He Appeals to Night, 75 

He Seeks Other Lands, 76 

He Finds Peace at Dawn, 77 

Cold Stars, 78 

The Storm, 79 

The Locked Door, 80 

The Crystal Ballroom, 81 

To Lydia, 82 

Two Sonnets, 83 

On Seeing Some Inland Roses, 85 
The Next Meeting, 86 
He Finds Hope in the Cosmic Law, 87 
The Last Train, 88 





STORM IN HARVEST 












To M. H. S. and E. S. S. 






























LINES, 

In Memory of Howard Crosby Butler . 

We shall not hear his voice, nor touch his 
hand. 

See wisdom face to face, nor quiet mirth 
Shall share with him, nor music, nor 
things planned 

Enjoy as if fulfilled. There is a dearth 
Come to our lives, who knew him. He is 
dead. 

We cannot tell of him as should be told, 
Nor reproduce his spirit. He is dead. 
Sorrow our hearts doth hold. 

Friends . . .those who knew him, all. 

Lower the simple pall, 

And bow the head. 

He would not have us mourn, but gently 
miss 

His kindliness; and if his soul had shone 
To light our hearts with courage of the 
dawn, 

He would have gladly smiled. But now 
that too has gone. 

One hope of understanding, less; 

One ray of simple gentleness; 

One guiding hand with genius in its touch, 
Has passed. 


5 


This man was such 
In spirit, that he gave, 

Now would he bend to save. 

Himself for others. 

Modest his name, but great 
The love we bore him. Rather would he 
be known 

As friend than as the master. 

Now abate 

Your grief awhile, for this sweet life has 
sown 

In our remembering hearts, a constancy 
Of hope and wisdom, and an eager breath 
That shall not fail. Pay the earth’s 
obsequies; 

His soul borne in our hearts shall not 
know death. 

( Princeton , September , 1922) 


6 


STORM IN HARVEST 


All noon the burning sun blazed on the 
wheat, 

And from the field vertical waves of heat 

Rose in the sultry air. The yellow grain 

Quivered with drought, the kernels cracked 
with pain, 

While as the slow scythe cut, flashing the 
sky, 

Soughing through the crisp straw, powder 
as dry 

And fine as pollen mounted the air and 
hovered 

Until the reapers’ hands and necks were 
covered 

With sweat and dust. 

An old man paused, and said, 

Struck by the white horizon and the red 

Glow of the sky, “A storm is brewing 
there 

Beyond the west,” and mumbled when 
the air 

Thickened above them, threatening. 

As he spoke, 

From the hot hills a distant echo broke 

The withering silence, a low mutter of 
thunder. 

The reapers stopped their work, found 
shelter under 


7 


Clumps of huge trees, and cursed the 
gathering storm. 

Some said they had foreseen it from the 
warm 

Spell of dry weather that had passed, and 
knew 

With such long drought some storm would 
surely brew. 

They thought of the huge barn that soon 
would be 

Cover from wet; how they would gladly 
see 

Its gaping lofts filled with the golden 
straw, 

And on the bright morrow, the greedy 
maw 

Of the great thresher; then, the grain-bags 
stacked 

On the barn's floor, and the wide wheat- 
bins packed. 

The storm raced up behind the hills and 
drew 

Nearer with shattering strides. The front 
clouds flew 

Over the reapers' heads in a black 
rush 

To the white sky. Then wind ceased, 
and a hush 


8 


Deep as the darkness brooded. The trees 
stood still, 

And the earth panted. On the blackened 
hill 

The barn stood empty, waiting. The 
thick sky 

Grew strangely denser. Wheeling swifts 
swooped by. 

The reapers waited, sickened. Each de¬ 
tail 

Sunk on their parching eyes: the fields 
grown pale, 

And flashing contrast, the viridian wood, 

And the bright poppies dripping their red 
blood. 


The reapers closed their eyes, but the old 
man 

Could not relax, and waited still to scan 

The clouds, the hill, the barn, the hay new- 
stacked. 

He clapped his hand to his eyes. 
Lightning cracked, 

Snapped through the air in sheets; the 
thunder reeled 

Clapping and clacking over the red field. 

The reapers woke, and cried out. Thun¬ 
der broke 


9 


Again and again. The hot breath of 
smoke 

Beat in their nostrils, and they waked to 
find 

The barn on fire, and the old reaper blind. 

Brown smoke rolled out, black cinders 
eddied round, 

Winging the vacuous wind, and the 
parched ground 

Blistered under the scourge; the air turned 
still 

And hot, and the barn blazed on the far 
hill. 

Then, suddenly down pounded the rain, 

And poured on man and barn and hill and 
plain. 



THE COVERED WELL 


Now that the drab autumnal brown 
Tinges the woods, and frost turns bare 
Fields yellow, she has come back to town 
After ten years, with gray in her hair. 
She is alone this time, and knows 
But dimly why she has come at all, 

Or why as once she went, she goes. 

Then it was Spring; now it is Fall. 

Down the long road in the October light 
She holds her not unlovely head 
Quite high, smiles bravely at new sight 
Of places known, and shows no dread. 
Sultry the afternoon and warm; 

White gloves grow gray upon her hand; 
Dust powders her gown, and she 

Is tired of carrying work she’d planned 

To help her pass still hours here. 

She will not use it now; she will go 
Only to where she went that year. 

Then, the train home. So, once below 
The bend in the road, she hurries on 
And comes to the little stone-rimmed 
well; 

It is covered now, but she has gone 
And heaved at the lid. And where it 
fell 


ii 


She lets it lie, and looks deep, deep 

In the ground. . . And then she 

turns away, 

Moving more slowly. She hears the peep 
Of myriad tree-toads in the gray 
Long grass of the drying swamp nearby, 
And stops, to think of the still June 
day 

She had looked in that well and tried to 
cry, 

And known that she would never pray. 

Nor had she ever prayed, nor cried. 

Something had closed upon her then. 

It seemed that some small thing had died 
She’d not for worlds let live again. 

As the October twilight fades 

She remembers the old beauty there 
Of flowers and shrubs and trees and blades 
Of grass, and the golden wash of air; 

But now she hears late robins call, 

The crickets chirp, and tree-toads blow; 
She feels the quiet evening fall. 

And thinks it must be time to go. 

She has put her hand to her face, and found 
It wet; but smiles, and holds her head 
More lightly. As she walks, the ground 
Seems more resilient to her tread. 


12 


DEAD LEAVES 


Deep in brown autumn woods they met. 

Each sadly saw the other sad. 

Each smiled, and said the day was wet 
And full of drowsy meaning. . . glad, 
Perhaps, to see the other there, 

Tho’ stranger, in the still, damp lane. . . 
He did not see that she was fair, 

Nor cared if they might meet again. 

Yet, to each other they bowed, and 
thought 

’Twould not be shameful if they walked 
Together; find out what each sought 
To gain. . . or lose. Low voiced, they 
talked 

A while, he in vague allegory. . . 

Summer was gone; ’twas sad, he said. . . 
Always, always, the old, old story. . . 

He hated to think of things grown dead. 

She said there was no death. The soul 
Ever found comfort in what was past. 
So these dead leavings caused no dole 
In her. Their truth still lived. She cast 
Downward her glance to the wet brown 
leaves. . . 

They spoke of fragrant spring to her. 
He said, 4 'Look at the umbering sheaves, 
The wind-cast skies of lavender; 


13 


Colors of mourning; dead.” “Not dead, 
But sleeping. Feel their sleep. The 
things 

Strewn on the ground are words,” she said, 
“All vain, tho’ once sweet utterings. 
Once they have cheered; surely will please 
Again, budding afresh. . . For I 
Know them put forth from immortal 
trees. . . .” 

He shook his head, and smiled good-bye. 


They met again with spring. He felt 
Her fair and good. He saw her eyes. 
The leaves burst green anew; tongue spelt 
The old undying ectasies. 

She smiled. “The tree is strong. Your 
words 

Are weak. Pity, they’ll soon be dead! 
Strewing the ground, frail, trampled 
shards. . . . 

But oh, I’ll come to you!” she said. 



LINES WRITTEN IN AUTUMN 

To M. H. S. 

I 

Now is the autumn, when new strength 
inspires 

To fresh creation, and a sudden joy 

Of life wells in the heart. For sun is hard 

Beating on ripened fields where corn new 
stacked 

Contrasts its light and shadow, and 
pumpkins redden 

Near yellow sheaves and copses dark blue 
grey 

With sudden color on the edge, where 
crows 

Winging above the brush call harsh and 
loud. 

Now is the autumn; glad are the strong 
hearts 

That knock within us. Out to the fallow 
fields 

Summon yourself. There, let the beauty 
burn 

Into your heart, and as the mind receives, 

Squeeze on your palette colors of the sky 

Hills, brakes, and fields in the warm nat¬ 
ural tones, 

To cover your canvas with the light of 
Earth. 


15 


II 

When winter whitens on the fields, and 
fires 

In close shut rooms strive vainly with the 
cold 

That whirls through cracks and etches 
on the panes 

Figures and whorls of frost; when the wind 
beats 

Unmuffled at the door, and knocks and 
rattles 

At shutters, while snow sways down and 
heaps the land; 

When action ebbs, as the sere mind congeals, 

Sinking to rest. . . Then dreams are of 
long months 

Of verdure and sun’s warmth, vacation 
gained 

By drudgery to release the hidden springs 

Of Being into life, when at the dawn 

The heart leapt with the sun over the 
fields, 

And journeying forth with sketch box we 
would go 

Up country lanes among the meadows and 
hills 

To seek some sheltered spot where we 
might work 

Through the noon heat, and luck having 
it so, 

16 


Imprison gleams of beauty; failing oft. 

The creative spark snuffed out, there to 
drink in 

Treasure of summer in broad daisied 
sweeps 

Of meadow, or in hay-making under a sky 

Where the heat raised white cloud-heads 
in the blue 

To hang like eiderdown, and without 
motion. 

Then came the days when the September 
spell 

Was woven on the land, and brought a sleep 

As slept the imprisoned Princess in the 
tower, 

And all the scullery maids and pot-brush 
boys, 

Till the Prince came and waked them with 
a kiss. 

So autumn comes and shakes the ver¬ 
durous wood, 

With pinioned wind, and causes leaves to 

fly 

And scatter hither thither, that erewhile 

Hung motionless in dream. The world 
awakes 

With touch of that keen kiss, and riotous 
life 

Leaps at its whip, while in the frosted 
night 


17 


Color flushes sumac, aster and rod, 

And paints trees red and ochre. This the 
time 

For work and play combined, when the 
blood leaps 

Tingling through the veins, and the spirit 
laughs 

Tumultuous mirth; or Indian Summer 
come, 

There is a time for thought and preser¬ 
vation 

Of that last peace for dreams in winter 
months. 


Ill 

When beaten down in mind, and worn 
with strife, 

The spirit seeks relief . . . the vital spark 

Declined, and intellectual vigor dulled . . 

How seldom comes that rest sought for. . . 
in vain. 

Through purely physical labor. But the 
heart, 

Cheered by the peace of Nature, probing 
down 

By blind analysis deeper than the crude 

External aspect, finds itself redeemed 

From darkness to a light one half its own, 

And one half Nature's, when gone from 
the scene 


18 


Of turmoil, one fares into the natural 
world, 

To reproduce its lesson, while vision grows 
With labor, and forgetfulness with vision. 
For when the senses whipt by beauty 
leap 

To quicker life, the enriched mind distils 
Their meaning, seeking now to represent 
In color what poured in with scent and 
sound. 

The work once done, there is an exaltation 
Of having nearer reached the springs of 
life; 

Or failing, this poor mind of flitting 
troubles 

Proved vain in solving to the root of Things, 
And small, but thus made greater, finds its 
rest. 

IV 

Of days when I have so experienced 
The truth of life, forgot but reassured, 
There are a host; but one day of all these 
Stands clearest in my mind, and the most 
dear. 

That dawn, mist veiled the land, and on 
the sea 

Lay like a shroud, while the slow mounting 
sun 

Rolled on the thick horizon, swollen and 
huge, 


19 


And spread flat shafts of light on the 
obscured waters. 

Then the mists parted, and white gulls 
were seen 

Hovering over driftwood; and the bay, 

Mirroring sky, slept in the cool dawn. 

Three hours later, on a rounded hill 

Close to the summit of the parching slope, 

Two sunburnt artists in crude paint- 
daubed smocks 

Opened their boxes, took out canvasses, 

Palettes, brushes and paint, and set to 
work. 

Below, the land was covered by white mist 

In seas of cloud spreading to the east and 
north, 

And southward black-polled mountains 
lifted crags. 

But on the stubbled field, on gorse and 
fern, 

On wind-bent briers and storm-twisted 
pines 

Clinging by rocks and piled stone walls, 
the sun 

Blazed with unclouded heat, and warmed 
our hearts, 

And struck sweet odors from the mounded 
slope; 

And made rocks gleam, and throw off 
waves of heat. 


20 


Silent we painted, but at length stopt 
work 

To look down on the mist, and to drink in 
The salt air from the sea and fill our lungs 
With the keen ichor; and threw back our 
smocks, 

Till blew a wind cold as the wind that 
blows 

From a white iceberg in the northern sea, 
Chilling us to the bone, who standing there 
Watched the mist wreathe and billow in 
the blue sky, 

And travel inland over fields, and then 
In sudden panorama the wide sea 
Blue as a sparkling sapphire, and the bay 
Broken with waves chopping on rocky 
shores 

And black, pine-covered islands; white- 
sailed ships 

Winging to sea with foam at their black 
prows, 

And all the wonder of the coastal hills. 
Then the torn mist swirled round the 
barren slope. 

And cut off sight. 

Shivering, we drew on 
Smocks and sweaters, shuffled the paints 
in boxes, 

Trudged to the road, and bundled things 
in haste 


21 


Into the waiting car. Then, the drive 
home 

Down from the hill, over the rolling road, 

With wind in our ears, and the clean breath 
of fog 

Clinging to face and hand; the swift de¬ 
scent, 

And the straight level stretch to home, 
where logs 

Heaped on the hearth blazed, and threw 
out heat 

That fog ran down in rivulets from our 
clothes, 

And steamed. . . 

V 

Should come the time, should come 
the time 

When we are in our graves, our souls shall 
wander 

Through the illimitable bounds of heaven, 

There, mounting some prominence, may 
we look 

From the high hills of heaven. . . may 
look down 

Upon the swirling mist as on that day 

We stood facing the wind and gazing down 

Upon that misty earth and hidden field 

Of water. Then this earth, become so 
dear... 

As why should it not be?.. . obscured by 
mist, 


22 


Through sudden rift of cloud and memory 

Revealed, as the wind of heaven touches 
our spirits, 

Stirring remembrance, may whirl unob¬ 
scured 

With seas and hills and valleys, through 
the gap 

Of time, and as that day, show living 
wonder 

To our remembering eyes that unimpaired 

Of vision, shall find the earth’s manifesta¬ 
tion 

Proved in the glorious fields of Heaven. . 
But Oh, 

If this should be denied, if Heaven is not, 

And spirits linger in this earthly space, 

Habiting what they loved, and what in¬ 
spired, 

Yet may no hill in heaven but that hill 
serve 

As memory of Faith, and to our tired 
ghosts 

Ever that earthly sight return the peace 

We knew that day. Even if death be an end, 

Unto the last of consciousness we may 
keep 

That sea and sky in our spirits, and de¬ 
ceived, 

Yet, loving life, bear glad hearts to the 
grave. 


23 


VI 

But now is autumn, and the sun is up; 

The fields are white with dew, and skies 
are clear; 

A colorous world riots, and mirth rings 
out; 

Take up your paints, to the meadows, and 
forget to fear! 


24 


AFTER TENNIS 


Shadows creep across the lawn, 

Longer and longer; the warm sun 
Swiftly for night and a new dawn 
Cools; and now our game is done. 

We sit on the lawn and rest, and gaze 
Over the fields, watching the sun set, 
Silent. Should-be-forgotten days 
Surge up again. We cannot forget. 

You laugh, “Do you remember ?” 

It is high noon again, ten years 
Ago. A warm September 

Wraps us in sadness, and young tears 
Come back to us; but still we laugh. 

We did not know we were not sad then. 
Ten years have passed. Today the chaff 
Of Time fills up our eyes again. 

The sun sets, and the air turns cold. 

We shiver, huddling our wraps around. 
“You won, two-love; I’m growing old. 

It was not that way once.” The ground 
Under our feet grows damp. We stay 
While knowing better. “Never mind. 
We can remember, and still be gay, 

Better things than are left to find.” 

Night falls. “It is far better so. 

Things can’t be now as they were then. 


25 



And yet. . . Time only could show 

The truth.” “Forget it all ” “Amen.” 
“So lend me now your steady hand 
To say good-bye, and understand. . .” 
“I think these heavy mists will bring 
Us rain; don't you?” “I want to sing.” 


26 


MARY 


Mary would stir all afternoon 
Red, bubbling jellies with a spoon 
Far, far too big for her, and taste 
With critical lips the sweet conserve, 

And smile approval with modest reserve. . 
None of her jellies went to waste. 

And then we children would gather round 
Her skirts, and a low laughing sound 
Of love would ripple on her lip 
As she would hand us creamy bread 
With grape or mulberry butter spread, 
And give us cambric tea to sip. 

But mostly I remember how 
She would so finely sew a seam 
For hours, until the sun hung low, 

When she would stop her work, and dream; 
Till we’d laugh in. . . She’d wake, and 
then, 

Smiling, would take it up again. 


27 


THE SPINSTER OF SKINCH LANE 


The footfalls that she longs to hear 
Upon the pavement, coming near, 

Striking the walk with eager beat, 

The voice of all joy-bearing feet. 

She longs and listens for in vain. 

They do not echo down her lane. 

Sun-up, and she has had her tea, 

Opened the knockered door to see 
If early visitors come her way, 

As once they did. . . But the long day 
Lulled by the hum of honeying bees, 

She works oblivious on her knees. 

With trowel and string among her phlox 
And roses and pinks and holly-hocks, 

She thinks of the flower of her own spring, 
And of her wasted blossoming. 

Sad is she there, for as she kneels 
Softly over her mind there steals 

A quiet dream of how some friend 
Should call, and, without pitying, end 
The grey perspective of her days, 

And give her love, and give her praise. . . 
Dreams, with the beating of her brain, 
“Such things don't happen down Skinch 
Lane." 


28 


When toward sweet night the slow day- 
draws 

Its sunny span, then she will pause, 

Then she will view the silent skies, 

And silent tears will fill her eyes. . . 
Tonight she looks from door to lane, 

And smiles, and then grows sad again. 

Biting her lip, she turns away. 

She does not want to see children play; 
But goes reluctant to her door. . . 

Skinch Lane shan't see her any more. . . 
For hope and life have run their train. 

There'll be no mourning on Skinch Lane. 


29 


EVENING 

c For M. H. S.) 

This is a quiet evening; 

In the green trees the black-birds sing. 

They only can tell as should be told, 

In the drowsy thoughts their low notes 
bring, 

Of another evening white and gold, 

An unforgettable evening. 

I see you in your garden dress. 

Your ways of lovable tenderness. 

In all the bloom of summer and spring, 
That beautiful self in that dainty dress. . . 

Again on this kindred evening, 

Your unforgettable loveliness. 

The eyes tear-lashed, the lips that sing 
In the happiness of evening, 

And the touch of twilight on your hair. 
Like sadness a delicate thought may 
bring 

Of the golden warmth of twilit air, 

Of an unforgettable evening. 


3 ° 


RELIEF 


It is dusk, and after the day's heat 
The quiet cool of evening 
Comes to me as the soft and sweet 
Touch of a calm hand. I sing 
With thankful heart up to the skies 
Where clouds lit with the sulphurous 
light 

Of sunset touch my tired eyes 

With gladness, and a breath of night 
Born of the early stars wings down 
To lift me up in its crisp fold. 

My heart leaps as the lights of town 
Break out into the dark and cold. 


31 


TOSCA, ACT III 

The prison glooms upon the city’s sleep 
When life is at its lowest, and the limbs 
Of lovers and of the old 
Are motionless, and in the dawn lie cold. 
Now eastern daylight draws night’s veil 
and dims 

The sombre sky and the stars, and sun¬ 
beams steep 

The wandering clouds and sleepy sky with 
gold, 

And bless the palace domes. 

Slowly over the sleeping city comes 
The chime of a distant bell. 

The flag that has waved drowsily 
Through the dark hours, now made visible 
Upon the bastion, still waves drowsily, 
And stirs in the dawn wind. 

O violins, cease your crying, 

And viol, flute, bassoon, 

Cease from your moan! 

Yet not of him who shall be lying 
Dead with a bullet in his heart do I mind, 
Nor of his lover who bids him take hope, 
and sees him dead, and dies. . . 

But for my sake, O violins, 

And viol, flute, bassoon, 

Cease from your moan, 

And still your cry! 


WINTER 

{To S. B. J.) 

The snow is heavy on the town, 

Swept from heaven down by the wind; 

And only the grey flakes and the brown 
Of trees are in the sky. I find 

No comfort in these things; I fear 
The passing of long year on year; 

I dread the cracking of winter tempests 
Over my heart grown cold and drear. 

Yet I would plod against the beat 
Of sleet and storm if I might gain 

Rest by your fireside, and the sweet 
Hope in my heart, with loss of pain 

And darkness from my mind, by light 
Struck from your mind, flamingly 
white. . . 

The fire is dead; even your window dark, 
And snow grows heavier through the 
night. 


33 


MARCH 


The rain falls dismally on the ground, 

At night the creeping mists uprise 
From the dank earth where the trees 
stand 

Dripping and cold. The sick heart cries 
For sunlight, as the slow day breaks 
Unseen over the eastern seas; 

And the heart from sullen dreaming wakes, 
But hears only the rain drip from the trees. 


34 


NECESSITY 


I do not ask that night 
Give me winged sleep that I 
Drooped on its pinions fly 
From dusk to a dream light, 

Nor of cold vision to see 
Things beyond earth, if they 
Make dark my earthly way 
By their eternity; 

But ask heart's peace to live 
In beauty of mortal things, 
Gaining for my soul wings, 
Yet not as fugitive. 

For there is mind’s relief 
In love, and food, and dress; 
There, too, forgetfulness. 
And faith, in grief. 


35 


FIRESIDE 


Dear things I love, dear quiet things, 

Like people that I love, and know. . . 

I had forgot that night-time brings 
Their realness home. The fire is low, 
And red and flickering flames now dart 
Quickly to die, and through the gloom 
Quiver the burning lights. My heart 
Is sad with beauty in the gloom. 

Brass candle-stick, gray pewter mug. . . 

How lovingly the firelight glows 
On these, on ceiling, wall, and rug, 

On wing-back chair and colored rows 
Of books. . . How silent is their speech, 
And grave the happiness they lend. . . 
They are of me, and I of each 
Of them, in bondage without end. 


36 


AFTER GOLF 


Now it is evening, and I plod 
Home from the links. The weighted bag 
Presses my feet to ground, and I 
Am tired; muscle and spirit lag. 

All afternoon the quiet warmth 
Wrapped me around, and I would play 
The game without heart, and think most 
On autumn, and on this still day. 

Homeward I plod, but I still see 

The greens bright in the September mist, 

And the immortals laughing there. 

The sun is set, and the sky is kist 
With light; but all the woods are dry 
And brown in the brittle fields. Now close 
Of day and summer knock. I hear 
The distant, lonely cawing of crows. 


37 


SYMPHONY 


Evening comes, and shadows drift 
In long lines on the heavy grass; 

And with the wind pass and repass 
Quiveringly. Beneath the trees, 

Over the flowers they fall and lift. 

The world breathes out its symphonies. 

The air is golden and rich with bloom 
Of myriad flowers. Hushed is the sweet 
Twittering of wrens, and the swift beat 
Of whirring grackles from the sky. 

The hanging sun drops, and the gloom 
Deepens; the trees tremble and sigh. 

Now it is dark; the trees are still; 

And restless grackles take breath from 
flight; 

The ground breathes as cover of night 
Muffles half of the world’s girth; 

Mute in the hush we stand until 

We feel the heave of the turning Earth. 


38 


NORDMAN FIRS 


I have come back to you, my trees, at last, 

After insatiate wanderings, 

To hear the soughing South Wind in your 
boughs; 

And my heart sings. 

I have found rest where you strive 
Heavenward, 

Roots in the sweet ground; 

Rest in your stately bending and soft 

Long boughs’ shuffle and sound. 

Far off where the dim lawn sweeps to the 
East, 

In woods hidden from sight, 

The frogs are peeping in the silence and 
hush and dream 

Of the deep night. 

Beyond the water, lights of the city sear 

Gold arcs on the moving sky; 

But all the stirring and heaving of the 
heart 

Is in your melody. 

I have come back at last, my seven 
guardians, 

Back to the old place, 


39 


To the cool South Wind that soughs and 
sighs in your boughs, 

And breathes on my face. 

Limbs compass-pointed, prone on the dear 
grass, 

Face-up to stars I lie; 

I see your height sweep upward from the 
ground, 

Crests lost in the night sky. 


4 o 


II 












A JUNE WALK IN PRINCETON 
t For T. S.) 

I 

Winter has come upon us; let me sing 

Of aught to give us strength through the 
most drear 

And dismal months of the revolving year. 

Preferring one short hour that yet may 
bring 

Refreshment to tired hearts, to which we 
cling 

As bond of faith, of friendship, and the 
clear 

Knowledge that makes this wintry world 
appear 

More kind in purpose, as was last Spring. 


Therefore, I take a subject that may please 

None but myself. . . if you, then better 
so. . . 

Nothing that teaches others, nor thought 
to ease 

Pain of their soul. I offer you what 
strives 

Neither to mend nor influence other lives. 

Yet tells in part how gained we much we 
know. 


43 


II 

So let them heed if they would knowledge 
share, 

The simple means of making such vast 
gain, 

Knowledge not won through tumult nor 
through pain, 

But peace comes sweetly in the midst of 
care; 

And let them sneer and snicker if they 
bear 

Aught of contempt or doubt of what is 
plain, 

Who find the answer neither in sun nor 
rain 

Unto a lonely world's unrisen prayer. 

For they, no doubt, have done as we 
before, 

And, if it’s true, these lines can give them 
naught 

Who think that sensuous Nature is no 
more 

Than of itself. But, as I sing, to you 

From one such teeming hour’s swift 
review 

Will spring the flower of the wisest 
thought. 


44 


Ill 


Warm was the evening, and the stuffy air 

In the room grew burdensome, and the 
dim care 

That irked my thought grew stifling as the 
heat 

Of early summer. For outside was the 
sweet 

Drowsy spell of flowers* scent, the 
shadows 

Laying their silence on the town, and 
meadows 

Not far away filled with red Columbine 

And daisies, and the green woods with 
Celandine; 

Bloomed late spring beauties and anemones 

Where lushest grew the budded shrubs and 
trees, 

The maples weighted down and throwing 
shade 

That only by maples in young June is made. 

In neighboring gardens lilacs were in 
bloom, 

Wygelia and first roses, so the room 

Was filled with the odor of spring, and yet 
was dull, 

Because, outside, things were more 
beautiful. 


45 


There, as I sickened, in the quiet street 

I heard, slowly approaching, the tread of 
feet 

On the warm pavement; presently, a voice 

Beneath my window made my heart 
rejoice; 

Books thrown away, I shuffled down the 
stair 

And sauntered out into the mellow air. 

We walked, breathing the warmth, my 
friend and I, 

Westward along the highroad, watched 
the sky 

Flush like a misted opal, and the red sun 

Roll in the west now the hot day was done. 

Once free of the town, we left the cobbled 
road, 

And over field and bright-flowered meadow 
strode, 

Into the sunset, on to a quiet lake 

Where elm and willow and shivering poplar 
make 

Placid reflection in the waters. There 

We lingered, cooled ourselves and felt the 
air 

Moist and refreshing after the warm day, 

And then we yawned, and rose, and went 
away 

From low-lands into hills, and on a hill 


46 


Where all the air seemed sweeter and more 
still 

Again we tarried where the lingering sun 

Shone gold. But all the valley had begun 

To be obscured in shadows, and the herds 

Whose lowing blended with the song of 
birds. 

Were loving the cool mist upon their 
flanks, 

And, in their bovine manner, giving thanks. 

Now both of us, being poets, had brought 
a book 

Of modern verse, yet never cared to look 

On modern song when sparrow and thrush 
were singing 

Far truer music, and the deep shadows 
bringing 

Cold purple glows of evening on the green 

Where now the mottled cattle were but 
half seen. 

Still in the lingering light we loitered there 

Nor spoke, but, silent, stayed, as if in 
prayer, 

To watching the flaming in the mellow 
west, 

To think and wonder, and to learn, and 
rest. 

Then, when the long slow shadows climbed 
the hill 


47 


We laughed, and rose, and wandered back 
in the still 

Light of the trembling sky, back to the 
town 

And came again to lawns so neatly mown 
They seemed like velvet where the flashing 
dew 

Of sprinklers lay upon them till their hue 
Was emerald, and in broad flower-beds 
Petunias and white lilies drooped tired 
heads, 

Syringa and mock orange made the air 
Heavy with a dull perfume, and the pear 
And bridal-wreath weighed racemes to the 
moist ground 

In silence. And there only was the sound 
Of our own feet upon the dewy road. 

Till a last vireo sang and took the load 
Of sensuous beauty from our souls. It 
sang 

Only a moment, yet the horizon rang 
Its echo back to our hearts, that purer 
notes 

Might wander from our pens and from our 
throats. 

We turned the shadowy corner, and heard 
swell 

Upon the air chimes of the chapel bell; 
And then we mounted to my room to rest 
Until the last light faded from the west; 

48 


But when the dark came down, and the 
starlight, 

We walked again, and breathed the living 
night. 

IV 

Let me stop here. In quiet June we 
went 

And watched the slow close of a summer's 
day 

Until the warm west glimmered and paled 

g ra y ? 

And to the heated earth cool night was 
sent. 

That night, to us half-fathoming what it 
meant, 

Half-consciously, perhaps, shall equal 
weigh 

In quiet grace of Heaven. But I shall say 

No more, for now my gladder song is 
spent. 

Dear friend, although our hearts shall not 
forget 

Yet may this record tell when the year has 
drawn 

To an end, one hour of other suns long set. 

June comes the same and goes, and there 
shall stay 

But this my bond to you who go your way, 

Gladly, and with fresh hope, into your 
dawn. 


49 


GOING TO EAT 
c For T. S.) 

As we went striding down the street 
With light hearts and light feet 
Bent on something or other to eat, 

The wind whistled and made moan, 

And lights were dim in the college town 
Where only we went striding down 

The midnight walk. And God! how cold. . 
But youth had made us gay and bold, 

We thought it beautiful to grow old. . . 

Poets and friends, together at night, 
When wind frosted and laid a blight 
Of dust on the land, and blinded our sight. 

The leaves rattled, whipt, and flew by; 
Two sycamores shivered stark and high, 
And then bowed down like ghosts in the 
sky. 

The stars shone out. We were young and 
proud. 

Suddenly then there came a crowd 
Of spirits winging. We laughed out loud! 


So 


SPRING NIGHT 


I 

We talked of trivial matters, he 
And I; but ah! the night was warm 
And wet, and full of spring and storm 
That couched on the wide-shadowed lea; 
But every tree 

Set from the wood was deep, deep red 
Inverted in the misted road. 

We rested. Hot rain fell. We strode 
Back to hot rooms. The night was bled. 
And our words hung dead. 

II 

Here on these steps, in wan moonlight, 
Let us think; 

Let us breathe the rich quietude of night. 
And think. 


Ill 

And Nature, free us from small thought! 
And Spring, 

Fill us with all rich beauty! Here, tonight, 
Let the full notes of that ecstatic bird 
Singing in the dark alders bring us life. 


THE STUDENT RE-ENTERS 
HIS ROOM 

Night has come to the earth; 

It is late. 

The ash is white on the hearth, 
And the coal in the grate. 

Four hours ago — But now 
It is cold. 

Even your dream is burnt low, 
And the flame is old. 

Go, go to sleep, and forget; 

Till the laughter turned tears 
Shall be sweeter and warmer yet 
Through all the years. 


5 2 


THE STUDENT LOOKS FROM HIS 
WINDOW LATE AT NIGHT 


The night is cold, and white stars gleam 
Upon the tinkling grass and trees; 

In the unlighted dormitories 
The men have gone to rest. 

There is a silence sounding deep 

As the Earth turns and youth takes sleep. 

This is a hard life, but we have done 
Our best; and all's to do again 
Tomorrow in the sun or rain, 

And we can do no more, 

Fooling ourselves and the world, than 
plan, 

And strive each one to be the man 

He is not nor shall be. But O, 

God bless us all, poor fools; I pray 
That we may bravely meet the day, 
Unflinching in the dawn, 

And at the hour of day’s break 

The bright sun warm us as we wake. . . 

I have turned out the last pale light; 
Goodnight. 


53 


TWENTY-ONE 


Now he’s twenty-one, 

O, there will be great merry-making; 

For he has gone 

Through twenty-one years without his 
heart’s breaking. 

And the twenty-one years 
Were a long time in going; 

Best let him laugh till his hairs 
Turn gray, fall out, and then stop 
growing. 

Well? One thing’s done; 

Until life’s ended it’s not so fleeting. 

But here’s to him; he’s twenty-one; 

And his heart will break soon, but not 
stop beating. 


54 


PERSPECTIVE 


When the late sun is falling low 

Above the hills, and the smooth hush 

Of a spring evening spreads, I go 
Sometimes into the fields and bush 

To feel the stillness. There, 

With none to share 

The beauty of the scene I rest, 

And breathe the cool, sweet, earthy 
smells 

Of country, or on some hill-crest 

Lying, I hear dulled the distant bells 

Summoning men to vespers. I 
Motionless lie, 

And do not care for anything 

That calls for thought. . . my studies, 
books, 

The voice of loud tongued bells that ring 
To class. . . but for some seat that 
looks, 

Some rounded knoll or hill-side, down 
Upon the town, 

Where the tall towers rise, and throw 
Long shadows on street, walk, and 
green. 

And ever students come and go 
Across that ever peaceful scene, 

Oft on some game or pleasure bent, 

Now day is spent, 


55 


Or if work lingers, *‘letting slide” 

Till morning. This, the Princeton way 
In June; on this green country-side 
Life ebbs at the warm close of day, 

As, from a distance, still, 

Upon my hill, 

I view it all, and feel its spell 

Come over me, and love its peace; 

And hear the distant chapel bell 
Speak of a past that shall not cease 
To grow. Now twilight is less bright. 
Now it is night. 


56 


PEACE OF NIGHT 


Calm night flows down on cote and wold 
And hill with the slow, muffled tune 
Of deepening silence half unrolled 

Through the long lingering eves of June; 

And, in the quiet streets where oft 
I stroll, in this still country town, 

I feel the night pulsating soft, 

But full of peace as it pours down. 


57 


MOONRISE 


Silent, the moon behind the feathery trees 

Rises. The lake, quiet as memories, 

Stirs not. The stars are dimmed. 

Through the unruffled air and over the 
still waters 

Comes song of tree-toads hymned. 

We are so silent now, that we can hear 

The stirring of grasses in the light lap of 
air; 

So quiet that, taking heart, a frog 

Croaks out his song at our feet, and in the 
silence, 

We can hear the rot tick in a floating log. 


58 


ON LEAVING A ROOM I HAVE 
OCCUPIED FOR A YEAR 

(To C. P.) 

The rugs are up, the curtains down, the 
chair 

Crated and tagged, and papers strew the 
floor; 

The trunks are packed, and the whole 
room is bare 

But for the dust and wrappings; the shut 
door 

Entombs the desolation. All my books 

Are taken from the shelves, and boxed, 
and sent. . . 

Now the landlady raps, and someone looks 

Over our room, and talks of terms and 
rent. 

But next year, at this time, he too will go, 

Yet leave part of himself; new men will 
stare 

At the hushed room, live in it, and not 
know 

That there are others. . . dead men. . . 
living there. 

Not till the old house falls, will flee the 
hosts 

Of one time young, but ever youthful 
ghosts. 


59 


THE SEA LIES EAST OF 
PRINCETON 


The sea lies east of Princeton. Let me 
look 

Out on the morning landscape as a book 
Of vision. Let me be. 

Mock not, for I look eastward to the sea. 
I look away 

From things less spiritual to the dawn; 
Over the dew-wet lawn, 

Far, far away, 

Beyond the buildings, over the sunlit 
plain 

To the articulate main; 

On to the gold horizon; fix my eye 
On the illimitable sky! 

O Princeton, let me be; 

I read my visions eastward in the sea! 


60 


METRONOMES 


Let us go find metronomes: 

Perhaps the finding will give birth 
To order and rhythm upon the Earth. . 
Tick, tock, tick, tock, 

Tick, tock, time to eat, 

Tick, tock, time for bed, 

Tick, tock, tick, tock, 

Tick, Jim’s married, they say, 

Tock, Jack died today, 

Tick, tock, tick, tock, 

Tick, find metronomes, 

Let us go find metronomes. . . 

“But what becomes of all our laughter, 
What of our love, and our freedom of 
song?” . . 

Tick, tock, tick, tock, 

Order and rhythm, order and rhythm. . 
Tick, tock, tick. . . 


AFTER CLOSING 


I don’t know why I stayed. . . To feel 
The turn of some mysterious wheel 
Of life; hear in my ears what rung 
Like echoes of a song just sung. . . 

I lingered when the rest had gone; 

I viewed the empty campus lawn; 

And saw in every blade of grass 
The mark, the bruise of feet that pass. 


i 


62 



Ill 















TO A WOMAN WHO HAS GAINED 
PEACE 

I did not know you, but I think your 
youth 

Could not have been more beautiful than 
the age 

That proves you gracious, who have read 
the truth, 

And read it to your image. The turned 
page 

Is turned for kinder vision, and your eyes 

Are not less bright for having filled with 
tears. 

Now in your heart the peace of wisdom 
lies 

Where love and sorrow lay so many 
years. 

I worship you, would have worshipped you 
then 

With passionate love, but not as now, a 
queen 

Who walks with stately quiet to make men 

Bow to the good in women. But what 
you have seen 

I can but vaguely ponder. . . Things that 

I 

May love, and yet not know, until I 
die? 


65 


SEA BRUME 


The moon is rising cold and blear, 

Quiet as only the moon can be, 

And the low soughing in the weir 
In the slow motions of the sea, 

And the smooth flow of rising tide 
Mounting with fateful certainty, 

Make the waves’ lap at the wharf-side 
Break the monotony. No sound 
Other than theirs ruffles the wide 

Moon-spilt silence wrapping us round. 

Over the dank brume from the ground 
Infinite is the mist-blown sky, 

Silence in which a breath is drowned, 
That the warm breathers, you and I 
Sop till our souls are of all space 
And time eternal, and the sigh 
Of the sea, the sorrow of the place 
Under the saturate still of night. 

Blend in the shadow of your face, 

Grown old and wise in the half light. 

Lost in the deep spell of night 
And the unceasing wash of air, 

Is the insidious rot, the blight 
Under the surface; soul’s despair 
Waxed with the tide’s flow and the seep 
Of waves risen in the sedge, till prayer 
Grows numb with silence and a deep 


66 


Realization of flesh. Unshoaled 
Now are the high waters, and creep 
Seaward with scums like hopes grown 
old. 

Now the dark air turns shivering cold, 

It shudders through us, and we see 
Only the universal mould, 

Night, and the world’s necessity. 

Lend me the quiet of your eyes, 

Let fall your dark hair over me. 
Night’s and the ocean’s mysteries 

Blend in your flesh. And now my quest 
Is peace, and even as hope dies, 

Let me forget in your arms, and rest. 


67 


ECSTASY 


Wind like keen steel cuts the fogged air, 
And lashes flecks of spray 
To javelin whips, till the blare 
Like rattle of trumpets hits my ear, 

Till the incessant motion and sway, 
The battering of waves and the drear 
Dreadfulness and monotony 
And unrest of the sea 
Bruise me so meadows with mild breeze 
Wandering over them, and hills 
Sunny-flowered with the bland bees* 

Hum insistent through the air, 

Or the wide, simmering sky that fills 
With clouds bosomed on the fields’ glare, 
And even the hushed rustle of trees 
Can lend no ease 

More permanent than minute’s rest 
That is no rest; for the bell 
Buoyed at sea clanks from the wave’s 
crest 

And jangles its call tirelessly. 

And I shall ride the swell 
Of mounting waves till the crude sea 
Of bitterness be ecstasy 
To me. 


68 


THE POET CALLS HIS LOVE TO 
THE MOUNTAINS 


Come up to the high mountains, love, 
where I 

See clearer to the stars, and may look 
down 

Upon the rounded Earth; come high, come 
high, 

To where the luminous heavens spread 
unknown. 

Oft to the valley from the misted hills 

Fd have you go, down to the moving 
sea, 

But now, my love, the enchanted spirit 
wills 

Stronger, to lift with thin-pitched 
melody 

To frozen summits loftier than the mount 

Where oft I pay you court in the low 
land, 

That hearing, love has no short hours to 
count. . . 

But come to me; I cannot reach you my 
hand. 


69 


HE ADVISES HIS LOVE 


Seek not thy god in flesh, for he will die. . . 

When god is dead, what hope has one of 
faith?. . . 

Or love will cease. . . And one must 
ceaselessly 

Love god, unto the emptiness of death. . . 

Look inward to thyself. What not in thee 

Is there in him? Thou changest. He will 
change. . . 

Or toward some intellectual deity 

Then let the free, impetuous spirit range. 

Seek elsewhere. Thou may’st think death 
cannot kill 

This wonder, though thou forcest love 
grown small 

And petulant in action. . . There is still 

The sure calamity, worst, worst of all. 

When the unchanging changes. . . be it 
not 

That dread defection be so soon forgot. 


70 


BROKEN CHORDS 

Alone; and you have gone, while through 
the room 

Sifts mellow sunlight in long bars of red, 

Limning the window, deepening the gloom 
Of solitude till even that light is dead, 

And through the window stares a ghastly 
sky 

Of fiery smalt, as silent on my couch I lie 

Watching arc lamps turn bright along the 
street, 

Flicker, and cast black shadows on the 
wall. . . 

I rise, and by the window take my seat, 
And strain toward clearer thought. 
Some music hall 

Across the way makes ready for a dance, 

And hearing this, I fall into a nightmared 
trance; 

But presently thin music plays and sifts 
Into my room in dim discordant strains. 

Now silence; now a weak-voiced viol lifts 
Dry, plaintive notes like quick, half- 
stifled pains, 

To strike and tear nerve-fibres and taut 
chords 

Of thought, till elfin phantoms troop in 
eerie hordes. 

Dressed in gray memories, vermilion 
dreams, 


7i 


Black, blue, green, yellow twitchings of 
unrest. . . 

But still the muffled music hums, drums, 
streams 

Like thin-mouthed shudders of a soul 
unblest. 

Cutting like sleet, or like white fire they 
burn, 

Torturing, screaming: Gone, gone past all 
return! 

Wraiths of sad, far-off dances; on the 
beach 

Long mornings, idly bantering in the sun; 

Water, sparkling ripples, and the reach 

Of listening promontories. One by one 

Such little scenes pour themselves out, and 
grind 

Each other into dust, in dust whirl from 
my mind. 

And then, somehow, the music is mere 
sound, 

Void of all meaning. Just another night 

Of dullness comes to go its dreary round; 

But suddenly I turn full on the light 

To clear the room of thought and quick 
regret, 

And be a lantern for a heart whose sun has 
set. 


72 


HE CLOSES HIS HEART 


Sink beauty to the earth, and die in pain 

After an hour’s blooming, do not weep. 

Grieve not; think other beauty springs 
again, 

That the dead bloom was troublesome to 
keep; 

For it was constant care to the loving hand, 

And tiring worry to the brooding eye, 

Grief in life to the fearful mind that 
planned 

To ward Death from a beauty doomed to 
die. 

Grieve not, grieve not! The heart is free 
again. 

Let soar the wandering mind through 
thoughtful space. 

Make love less earthy, though less dear, 
and then 

Forget. Grieve not o’er a forgotten 
face. 

And that it stay forgot, use all thy wit, 

Close fast thy heart; and O, speak not 
of it! 


73 


HE FINDS RELIEF IN LIFE 

When I am numb with sorrow and with 
night 

And the immeasurable distance of the stars 

That prick the malarial sky; when petty 
wars 

And strifes distend my dreams and blear 
my sight. . . 

When everything is wrong, and nothing 
right, 

And moon and sun indifferent are to Earth, 

Till it seems Man's best destiny from 
birth 

To a last death be one of swift delight. . . 

I throw myself on life, and grieving gain 

Moments relief in life, and purge my 
dreams 

In living, and believe, and still my cry 

Until my senses sing, while joy and pain 

And rich contentment fill me, till it seems 

I'd see white angels winging from the sky. 


74 


HE APPEALS TO NIGHT 


Night, Night, mild time of rest and 
sweetened sleep, 

Be kind to me who have so loved the 
dawn. 

And seen the sun loom up the golden steep 

And blaze into meridian. It has drawn 

The sap from me, and made the world 
turn dust 

That catches evening’s meagre gold and 
red 

Too late; the land is russet and black rust, 

The beauty the sad beauty of the dead. 

Be kind to me, Night; give me lengthened 
rest. 

With dream, but not of feverous heat 
and noon, 

Nor of the treasure sinking in the West; 

But let the luminous quiet of the moon 

Pour down upon me sleep, that I may rise 

And meet the morning sun with shining 
eyes. 


75 


HE SEEKS OTHER LANDS 


You had not much to offer, and I go 
To distant seas and hills with a glad heart, 

Seeking that rest and happiness I know 
Lies somewhere. God is good. There 
is some part 

Of this Earth I may find it, be it high 
On starlit peaks above the spreading 
plain, 

Open to wind and the down-pressing sky, 
Or on the wide sea. Now through every 
vein 

I feel the pulse leap to the eager quest; 

I leave you on the morrow. . . But this 
sunset 

You show me beauty until now unguessed. 
There is a spell of peace, and I forget 

Drab days, and must remember you for 
this. . . 

For I have found rest in a parting kiss. 


76 


HE FINDS PEACE AT DAWN 


All night I listened to the monody 

And restless plaint and cry of the marsh 
brine; 

The ripples' creak through the weeds in a 
fine 

Grievous lament of twanging agony; 

Till the far sobbing of the distant sea, 

Of cold breakers churning their long, salt 
line 

On the hard shore hushed the unquiet 
whine 

Of ripples, and wrapped a deep sea-sleep 
upon me. 

But I awake, strangely early, and the sun 

Mellow as morning, warms the fresh- 
springing breeze, 

And spreads over the broad grasses of the 
dun 

Sea meads; on the marsh beach, a calm 
white light, 

And on the waters; and all so still, and 
bright. . . 

Dear God! the very peace, the very peace. 


77 


COLD STARS 


I have writhed in the festering heat 
Of noon; I have felt my mind 
Reel with the southern wind, 

And drops of passionate sweat 
Dry on my brow. 

But now, 

I have seen the distorting light 
Fade, and white stars shine out; 

I have felt my fever’s rout, 

I have breathed the clean air of night. 


78 


THE STORM 


The sky lowers; 

It showers; 

Raindrops in big plashes fall; 

Dark is the room, dark is the hall. 
Draperies stir; breezes spring 
Soft as the feather of an owlet’s wing. 
Rest on my cheek, and go. 

Tick, tock, 

Ticks the clock; 

Slow, slow, slow. 

The door opens; a stranger there 
Stands silent on the dusty stair; 

Black, and then dead white his hair. . . 
And the lightning flashes. He is not there. 

And the wind blows the door shut, 

And the thunder rumbles in; 

And then there is only a thin 
Murmur of rain, and the wind dies out, 
And the sun cracks the clouds like a 
shout. . . 

Yet there’s nothing to shout about. 


79 


THE LOCKED DOOR 


The door is locked, and that is all 
There is to say about it. 

And as for what’s inside the room. 
I’ll have to go without it. 

The door is locked, and that is all 
There is to say about it. 

But if I know what’s in the room. 
Why, I keep still about it. 

And so, for knowing what it is, 
You’ll have to go without it. 

The door is locked, and that is all 
There is to say about it. 


80 


THE CRYSTAL BALLROOM 


The touch of irony is light on all of us 
tonight. 

Four hundred roses blooming in an acreage 
of blight; 

Envied, hated, cursed? Who cares ? 
We’ve got our liquor stored; 

We are the god-like millionaires, and like 
the gods are bored! 


81 


TO LYDIA 


I do not love you if in play 
I pledge my love, for your life’s way 
And mine differ as night and day. 

But when my dream is shard, the thought 
Of you, and happiness you have brought 
Into my life, is dearly sought. 

You ease the mind of one who prays 
For you, and for your delicate ways, 
The loveliness that stays, and stays. 

Nor would I have your spirit know 
Years’ hardening, but pray that it go 
Lightly through the adagio, 

And move as with your bodily grace 
You tread this strange and motley place 
With youth upon your lifted face, 

And mien nor childish nor unwise 
Of unaccounted laughter and sighs 
And joy and sorrow in your eyes. 

I love the light unwittingly shed 
By the chaste poise of your proud head. 

I sorrow that your mind is dead. 


82 


TWO SONNETS 


I 

You are as shallow as a meadow stream 

Pellucid in the sun, that he will find 

Who chances near, more limpid than a 
dream 

Where mist is not, nor cloud, nor any wind. 

When sun is shining, and the dragon flies 

Glimmer above it where light grasses sway 

On the white surface, it is blue as skies 

And warm as summer on an August day. 

But when clouds gather, and the heating 
sun 

Is hidden, and quick, sudden gusts of 
storm 

Whip up a tiny whirlpool where was none, 

The water is made cold that was so warm. 

Then, when the lightening sun has chased 
the rain. 

The stream flows clear, and smooth, and 
warm again. 


83 


II 


But let no man build cities on its brink, 
Nor dam its flood to make it broad and 
deep; 

It will not fill the dam, nor sweeter drink 
Will offer, nor its pristine clearness keep. 

Small stream, let it flow idly to the sea 
Through pleasant banks where lovers 
come to lie, 

And hear its crisp and shallow melody, 

Or children play, or poets such as I 

Gain mind's refreshment in its warm, still 
flow, 

And watch its ripples in the sunrays gleam, 
Or like Narcissus by a pool bend low 
To see their likeness shadowed in the 
stream. 

He who shall gaze in it will find more fair 
The meaning of his plainness imaged there. 


84 


ON SEEING SOME INLAND ROSES 


The inland roses have not 

the fragrance of those by the sea, 
The roses convolvulus twined 

that cling to the spray sown shore; 

They have not the crimson blood, 

and their pallor is nothing to me 
Who am sick of their faint breath, 

and have loved the others before. 

They have not the ecstatic flush 

that comes of salt air and the wild 
Beating of waves at their roots; 
they are satiate with the dew 

Of soft dawn on their petals; 

they are pure and undefiled; 

But they lack the sea-bred strength, 
and never will have the hue 

Rich and clear and ringing 

of their sea sisters, and hue of life 
Born of the struggle of weather and wind 
and bitter soil and the sea. 

The brave and beautiful spirit 

sprung from victorious strife; 

I have loved their sturdier sisters, 
and these are nothing to me. 


8 $ 


THE NEXT MEETING 


I wonder, should we meet again, 

If you would smile upon me then, 

Or if you’d show averted eyes. . . 

Say, merely something in your guise 
To flagellate and throw me down. . . 
A subtle sneer, a petty frown. . . 

Or would you only laugh and jeer 
At things that happened yesteryear? 

I think perhaps you’d go all white, 

And then all crimson, at my sight, 

And slip into some handy store 
So I’d not see you any more. 

I’d look away; perhaps regret 
The things you’d wish me to forget, 
And sing the postlude of romance 
Started and ended at a dance. 


86 


HE FINDS HOPE IN THE 
COSMIC LAW 


Now is the closing of the year; but there 
comes spring; 

It is the night, but after night comes dawn; 
One moment passes, that new moments 
bring 

New worlds when this is gone. 


87 


THE LAST TRAIN 


I shall go out at night, 

And leave the heated room 
Dull in the half gloom 
Of guttering candle-light, 

Nor longer shall I stay 
Lest lingering I see 
The candles die away, 

The last wine poured for me; 
Into the night IT1 glide 
From the dim table-side 
And the tired talkers there. 

Into the snow-sweet air. 

Then once the threshold passed, 
Free of the waning mirth, 

On the cold, wintry earth 
I'll walk half glad at last; 

Half gladly I shall go, 

Half sadly, without sound, 

Over the fallen snow 
And on the frozen ground; 

Sad to think and to long 
For the ring of a dead song; 
Glad love left its mark 
To friend me through the dark. 

The corner I shall make, 

And hurry down the street, 


88 


Buj, no one shall I meet 
Thereon to still the ache 
Of heart’s deep loneliness 
And quiet of the night, 

To quell the sudden press 
Of happiness dreamt in light 
Fallen from candles tall 
To shadow the long hall, 

And the mirth and laughter ringing 
Upon the walls, and the singing 

Of friends. I’ll think, and mourn, 
And shuffle on with weight 
Of burdens grown of late 
Too heavy; I shall turn 
Down the long sloping lane, 

With tread nor quick, nor slow. 

I have gone to the last train 
Before, as I shall go. 

And heard as I went down 
A bell ring over the town, 
Incessantly beat the air, 

To make a world despair; 

Heart-beat on bell-beat; long 
Inharmonious notes 
Forced from the iron throats 
To wail phantasmal song. 

Down to the train I have gone, 


89 


Silent and tired, with eyes 
Searching for things once known 
Now hidden by dark skies. 

When only snow has gleamed 
In the night whose falling seemed 
To bring peace on the land, 

But pain to understand. 

On the dim platform I 
Have waited and watched the snow 
Flicker and fall in the glow 
Of the station lamp nearby; 

And stood, and seen the rails 
Shine in the dark and gleam, 

And heard the far-off wails 
And intermittent scream 
Of engines, and the peals 
Of a bell with rumble of wheels 
And groan of ties. The glare 
Sudden on snow-thick air 

Bursts with a rush of wind 
And roar of iron; and then, 

The empty tracks again, 

And the breath of the wet wind; 

Till through the blinding night 
Long clanking cars are drawn 
Slowly from hills of moonlight 
To seaboards of white dawn; 


90 


And when they too have passed 
Suddenly comes the last 
Train out of the West; 

And what is last is best. 

I mount the steps and throw 
My weight on the heavy door, 
And in the corridor 
I choose a chair; and know 
Many a time the light 
Too dim for reading there, 

And so gaze at the night 
Outside and the snow’s glare 
On field and house and tree 
Passing too soon to be 
More than a shape in the gloom, 
A gleam in the cold brume. 

And barely do I keep 
From moaning; and I look 
Back to the blurred book, 

And at travellers asleep, 

Until I too must doze, 

And only dimly wake 
To see the glimmering rows 
Of city houses break 
The dark, as the train goes 
Swaying on, nor slows, 

But swings over the fen, 

And gathers speed; and then 


9 1 


Into the dark well 

The cars roar, and sweep 

With clatter and clank through the deep 

Throat; and the lorn bell 

Rings in the thick black, 

Beneath the river-bed. 

Until the eardrums crack 

And grow numb. Someone has said 

A word or two, and some 

Arise, knowing they’ve come 

To the end, rub eyes and yawn. . . 

Slowly, the journey done, 

The cars jog on the rail, 

Lights flash, and the brakes grind; 

Then the press out, to find 
The smell of mist, and the pale 
Luminous haze of air, 

The stairs, the many feet 
Trampling into the bare 
High hall, and the known, sweet 
Touch of hand or a kiss. . . 

I know it will be like this, 

All gladness and relief 

From cankerous heart’s grief. . . 

I shall go out at night, 

And leave the heated room 
Dull in the half gloom 
Of guttering candle-light; 


92 


Nor longer shall I stay, 

Lest lingering, I see 
The candles die away, 

The last wine poured for me. 
Into the night I’ll glide 
From the dim table-side, 

And the tired talkers there, 
Into the snow-sweet air. 


93 










PRINTED BY THE ARGUS CO. 


ALBANY 


N. Y 








Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Oct. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724) 779-2111 





































































































































































































